An Ingénue and Her Muse
by FreelySheRoams
Summary: 'Your fingers dig until they bleed, and yet, Silly Girl, you never get that diamond ring...' It's hard to find the light again, when you've been in the dark for so long. But one day you will. You just need to remember that you're worth fighting for.
1. Silly Girl

**A/N Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. Story Warning: Strong M, as always. Hey there! Sorry for the long wait, but I'm back. And here's something new, and different. Please, enjoy!  
**

 ** _An I_** ** _ngénue and Her Muse_**

 _Your fingers dig until they bleed, and yet, Silly Girl, you never get that diamond ring_

 _..-. .-. . . .-.. -.- ... ... . .-. -.- .- - …_

 ** _I_**

The first fatal blow is swift – a fiery pinprick through the gut, delivering an agonizing whiplash that takes a few months to fully process.

It settles into your bones and oozes profusely, until your limbs feel stiff and heavy.

Your mind becomes an unstable landfill of vicious thoughts…

Of memories.

And broken promises.

One wrong step – too close to a pressure point, and that's all it takes for the dark veil to seem to descend over everything. Turning your once vibrant world of color and whimsy into nothing more than ash and dust. Anything you now do seems to summon a difficult…

' _What's the point?_ '

Clutching the nearest surface, catching yourself before you end up face flat on the floor, becomes a daily ritual. A survival technique that fades into a soothing habit. Because if you can feel the cool textured surface of the wall beneath your shaking fingertips, and hear you labored breath then that means you're still alive.

And that's something, right?

… _Right?_

But this time…this time it's different.

It feels as if a serpent has wrapped itself tightly around your lungs. Viciously squeezing, making it seem like surrendering to a brutal suffocation is the only escape from your misery.

In the far recesses of your mind you somehow manage to list the symptoms, and immediately recognize that you're suffering from claustrophobia – your third worst fear, right behind clowns and creepy crawlies – which seems absolutely ridiculous, considering you're standing in a wide-open space. Yet, your hands are clammy, and your staccato breath has become a discomfort.

 _Breathe Garcie, just breathe._

 _You're fine. Everything is gonna be okay._

 _Just breathe…_

Hoping your kind, inner dialogue will bring you comfort. Though once you open your eyes, realization strikes like a lightning bolt. The cause of your sudden panic attack is from ending up down the wrong hallway – yep, the one you've been avoiding for weeks.

The one that belongs- _belonged_ to your best friend.

 _Keep breathing..._

The walls around you seem to stretch, and spin, and go on for miles, though you've only stopped a few feet away. And the moment your vision clears and the thunderous roar in your ears dissolves into a distant hum, you can't help but spot the soon-to-be dark and almost completely empty office.

And that, is all it takes.

For the poorly stitched wound you've been valiantly trying to prevent from festering to rip wide open, and knock you breathless.

The impact is jarring – lodging in the back of your throat, springing tears to your downcast eyes – and forces you to slam into the wall behind you. Knees locked in place, there's nothing you can do but remember how to breathe. A simple function that proves painfully foreign. It's your Heart's resistance from your Mind to continue. A loss of control, that relies on muscle memory to keep you afloat.

Sense manages to claw its way back into your consciousness and you find yourself now standing in the middle of his office. Hoping to feel anything other than sorrow. The room is bathed in harsh fluorescence, and the acrid aroma of bleach and pine cutting through the air is like a hot cattle prod digging, scorching...mocking your misery.

Twirling around once, twice – trying to find any semblance of familiarity in the place that holds precious memories now hidden in white cardboard boxes – only to feel your laminated badge graze the top of your thigh. An intrusive reminder that you're still at work, and you're going to need to regain your composure.

A tedious, exhaustive task you don't have any willpower to achieve.

Shoulders that are taut with agitation quickly straighten, though before those deep honey eyes can lift off the ground, your breath hitches as you catch the shattered, jagged little pieces, of your broken heart strewn across the floor.

There's nothing pretty about it. It's messy. Though you have a morbid curiosity to keep staring.

Wanting to sift through the debris after an explosion. Needing to find answers that were already lost.

Leaving a gaping hole in the center of your body. Pulsing with molten fervor, and a persistent stinging behind your eyes that blurs your vision once more.

You don't move, becoming frozen in time, like a statue carved out of glorious marble – never to exist, only to be admired from afar, through hooded eyes and impish smirks. Not wanting the wedges of your favorite heels to trample through the room – staining the carpet, or losing the fine splinters through the thick woven fabric – you stay rooted to the spot, exactly where he left you.

Logic has always been your companion, and it tells you, through a strangled whisper – raw, and graveled from the back of your subconscious – that you can't move yet, because the bleeding remnants of your heart can't be damaged any further, especially not by those pretty, uncomfortable heels you insist on wearing.

How could you possibly survive, if you go and make the situation even worse?

Simply…

you can't.

So, your back goes rigid, and your knees become weak. And the tears that tease your long lashes, get furiously wiped away from the back of your hand. That's all you can do.

That, and breathe.

As painful as it is, you breathe.

Tight, quick, shallow breaths.

Breathe, and watch the setting sun behind you, disappear through the slanted blinds, until the warm, golden hues leave the room, and with it, a part of your soul. For your Heart was your compass. Your lifeline. Your True North. And as day turns to night, and your limbs become languid and begin to shake, this _change_ begins to have an air of finality to it.

It is, after all, your fault for believing in the first place. So many years that made up a decade of your life. 120 months, filled with 3,650 days of furtive glances, teasing smirks, dangerous nicknames – all promises of something more.

Something _better_.

Something- _someone_ worthy of loving. It required no effort, it just happened. Your whole mind, body, and soul fell irrevocably in love and you had no way of stopping it. It was _that_ kind of better.

 _That_ kind of once-in-a-lifetime pure magic, that made you believe in fairy tale endings.

Something that was now completely ruined.

Pure devastation. A dark, consuming anger. Loneliness. Naivety.

Regret.

As if the deep, soul-filling connection never existed.

You wasted so much time on him.

Though you remember it. All of it. Every single minute.

You remember.

How he made you feel. What he made you think. Who he made you become.

How could you possibly forget _him_ – the greatest love of your life.

You know, the same man who ran off and married another woman. And had a baby, and moved far away.

Yeah, that guy.

" _I'm gonna stick around a little longer."_

Deep down, you always knew he wouldn't. And he proves your right.

Those words swirl around you. Seeming to be carved into the walls of his office. Hell, you have a sparkly, purple diary hidden and secured in the bottom of your desk drawer at home.

' _Mrs. Morgan'_ inked with a flourishing cursive. Adorned by tiny hearts, smiley faces and your lovely dreams of a cozy home and white picket fence, decorating page, after page.

You haven't opened it in years. It was once a way for you to express confusing, fluttering, unmentionable feelings when you two had first met. But a part of you gave up the knight-in-shining armor fantasy a long time ago.

Though, you never threw it away.

"Hey, Silly Girl _. I love you. You know that, right?"_

Yeah, how could you forget him?

 _Silly Girl_ …

You can't.

It's not fair.

Really, it's not.

Though, in your line of work, you know damn well that life rarely ever is.

That thought doesn't ease the bitter acidity flowing through your veins. Instead it incites that envious, little, green-eyed monster to rear its ugly head.

Your throat tightens at the exact moment your pouty bottom lip quivers. You hate that feeling – of wondering how you're still alive when your heart is breaking. Because even when you sense you're destined for heartache, it always leaves you feeling blindsided. An unexpected punch in the gut, that leaves you gasping – angry, guilty, foolish and oh so very…sad.

That deep, aching sadness that could only be associated with loss.

It's grief, and it fucking sucks.

You had time to prepare for it. And yet…and yet, _Silly Girl,_ you didn't.

 _Oh, Garcie!_

 _When are you gonna grow up?_

 _You're a stupid, pathetic little girl that still believes in happily-ever-after's!_

…well you still do – you always will.

You just, can't help it.

Some will say it's part of your charm. You, however, know better. That your strong naivete for all things romantic will be your inevitable downfall. The proof of that already lies on the ground before you. Proof that you believe in wedding bells and picket fences with every ounce of your being, so much so, that you would fall in love with the wrong guy just because he smiled at you and gave you pet-names and…

and made you believe...

that it could possibly, somehow, maybe one day happen to…

you.

 _Idiot!_

The scream is hollow, lacks any vitriol that settles into your bones, because you're trying so hard not to crack any further, that you're exhausted.

But you do have enough energy, to perhaps throw something. Hard. Against the wall. Particularly your bright sunshine mug – a gift from him so many moons ago.

 _Something_ that reminded _him_ of _you_.

If you break it, you could physically see the pieces of glass scattered across the floor. You would just grab the dust pan and sweep it up. Throw it away. Maybe find some of your Heart amongst the rubble. You could put those pieces in your pocket, and try to stitch them up later that night, or that week. No, you'll need a few months. Or a year. Before you could look at them again.

Oh, how it hurts.

It really, really hurts.

Missing the organ that pumps fresh blood throughout your body – keeping you alive. It doesn't quite work right any more. Hasn't fluttered with joy in months, maybe even years. Doesn't thud with anticipation for what his promises might bring. It hasn't for a very long time. And it's only now, standing alone in his office, struggling to breathe and keep the tears at bay – because if you feel them streaming down your face, or hear your pitiful sobs fill the room, then that makes it all so real, and real means it hurts, and you're so very tired of hurting, of hiding, of not being able to breathe with ease, without thought, without forcing it.

So, you just continue to stand there, and wait.

and wait

and wait

and...wait...

Wait for the air to fill your lungs.

For the puffy redness of your eyes to stop stinging.

Your fingers to stop clasping and unclasping, twisting into sweaty palms.

Your ears still ring. Repeating his last words to you. Over, and over, and over. It fades and morphs into bits that fall out of order and you begin to wonder if he actually even said those things. Or, is your mind playing ticks on you and making his words have a sharper edge, so they cut a little deeper and you bleed a little more. Maybe it'll break through the numbness, so you can feel it, feel _something_ , anything, and have a release.

You need to cry.

Let it all out.

But you won't.

No, not yet.

Not for a long while.

And that's perfectly fine with you. Because you don't want to cry right now. Not with all the cameras around you and people milling about. You're already stripped bare. You don't need an audience. They've all laughed at you long enough. Watching the side show that was your whirlwind affair. The water cooler gossip that had eventually made its way from floor-to-floor.

It seems everyone knew how it would end, except for you.

And oh, how you hate not knowing.

Grinding your teeth, you find a burst of defiant energy and step forward. Wobbly at first, but you steady yourself, catching your watery gaze reflected at you from the tinted window across the room.

Those bouncy curls seem deflated. The satin finish of your berry lips appears muted. And the mascara streaks, give way to hideous raccoon eyes – a total failure for all the valiant effort you spent the last half hour trying not to cry…because you didn't want to cry…even though every part of you wanted to weep.

Because you didn't get the man of your dreams. Nor the dazzling diamond on your finger symbolizing commitment. Your hand automatically floats over your belly and you flinch. For it's not you who's swollen with his child. Hank isn't your son. And you are not his mom.

No, you won't be called a misses or a mommy any time soon.

And you'll spend months trying to convince yourself that you're okay with that.

 _Just breathe._

That looming dread swells within your gut once more as nausea coils down your spine like a vile serpent. Perhaps you're on the brink of death. You've been there before. And there's a familiarity to all of this. Maybe you should knock. Curiosity, now being your solemn friend.

Absently nodding, you step forward and lose your footing, stumbling into the desk behind you. Bruising your thigh, you slump down, knocking shit to the floor you don't care to pick up. It's all the things he didn't find important enough to take with him anyway – leaving it behind for whomever would occupy this office next.

He just left it there.

Just like he left _you_ here.

His… _Baby Girl_.

A twist of the dagger. Another, horrific blow to your battered ego.

Oh, well…fuck.

No!

 _Stop it Penelope!_

 _You can't blame him for not loving you._

 _No?_

 _Breathe..._

Well, you certainly can hate him for making you feel like he did.

That seems to be the trigger. And you pull it with such a manic fervor that it tears a harsh, unexpected sob from the back of your throat.

You shoot off the desk. And even as you clamber your way out of the room gasping for air, you can't help but pity the poor bastard who's going to take over this office.

You're just really, really going to hate them.

 _To be continued…_


	2. Sunshine

**A/N Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds, or the borrowed dialogue from the episode The Crimson King. Story Warning: Strong M, as always. Also, my other stories will be continued as well :) Please, enjoy!**

 _ **An**_ _ ** ** _I_** ** _ngénue_** and Her Muse**_

 _Roots burrow their way through soil, seeking life,_

 _and within a night, a flower shall bloom_

 _..-. .-. . . .-.. -.- ... ... . .-. -.- .- - ...  
_

 ** _II_**

Tranquility has become elusive

as it is the enemy of Depression

and yet, you continuously struggle to find it.

Missing it like a phantom limb.

Because the lulling effects of chamomile, aided by sleep medication,

can't seem to conquer the raging battle between your broken Heart and confused Mind.

Not even a sobbing tantrum beneath a hot shower can fix it.

And you feel rather glutinous, an overindulgence that leaves you with a bellyache, and yet…

you feel, completely

empty

Like an abandoned house with broken locks and shattered windows.

With dust gathering in every crevice, as a chilly breeze blows through.

Until you take your first sip.

And find some relief at the bottom of a glass.

And if you're able to ignore the pulsing migraine, similar to that of a jackhammer breaking concrete, and the swirling nausea giving you acid reflux, then perhaps one could find some glorious liberation of waking up with a hangover, on a Wednesday.

Though when your alarm clock blares for the third time, awakening stiff joints that throb with a vengeance as your body becomes aware that it needs to get up and out of the warm, plush cocoon of comfort, you suddenly regret every single sip from that pretty bottle of Pink Moscato.

Rolling over, slowly stretching out your taut limbs beneath the heavy floral duvet, you catch the blinding rays of sunshine peeking through large fluffy white clouds against a strikingly crisp blue sky. For a moment it takes your breath away, and you briefly cherish the moment of beauty that only nature can bestow. Which has the distinction of an enchanting oil painting from Leonid Afremov.

A smile pulls at your lips despite the strain it pulls across your brow, only to disappear when you sit up, suddenly suspicious. For a morning this spectacular seems so rare after weeks of dark grey skies and rainy afternoons – an appropriate companion for your foul mood.

Though you've spent years learning that precious things never last, and you should always be on your tip-toes waiting for the second shoe to drop. It's a lesson you haven't quite mastered. You probably never will. And it becomes a cruel taunt that seeps pitiful dread back into your weary bones, leaving your gut churning and big fat tears blotting your vision as you quickly stumble towards the bathroom.

 _Breathe…_

 _Just breathe…_

 _Everything will be alright if you…_

You barely make it to the sink and the hideous pale chunks splattered across white porcelain has you vomiting again. Catching your breath and splashing cold water on your face, you dig your palms into the counter top, arching your back as you gently sway from foot-to-foot.

The constant chatter fades away, only for your bare feet to graze against something silky smooth over cool linoleum. Eyes shooting wide open, the startled scream catches in your throat as you spot the chopped golden curl by your plum painted toes.

You freeze.

Tasting the bitter acidity.

Feeling the angry cadence across your temple.

 _Oh…that's right._

Last night…

…you cut your own hair.

An impulsive act of defiance from the ever-changing currents of your life.

You can still feel the weight of those steel scissors in the palm of your hand as the distinct grating slice of each lock ricochets around the tiled room.

 _No more wine for you, Garcie!_

 _Never. Again!_

You stare at the floor. Counting each fallen strand. Every flattened curl.

Twenty-nine…

Thirty…

Thirty-one…thirty-two…

Thirty-two.

Thirty-two locks of hair are at your feet.

 _Keep breathing…_

And before you can begin a negative tirade of self-loathing, you bolt upright, and lock eyes with yourself in the mirror. Though, you don't- _can't_ look away from the purple bags and red-rimmed eyes – once flecked a dazzling dark honey, now appear dim, almost lifeless. A harsh narrowed gaze, that has an untapped fury brewing behind it, just waiting to be lit. Making it difficult to recognize yourself.

That happy-go-lucky, always bubbly and whimsical, talking about puppies and rainbows, kinda girl.

Physically, it's you.

You are Penelope Grace Garcia.

But mentally…

Mentally, where are you?

Where is _she_?

You don't really know, but the fact that you don't care to look for her, is what terrifies you the most.

Garcia wasn't a quitter. _You_ weren't a quitter.

Yet, you just lost the most important battle of your life.

And now the light at the end of the rainbow is muted.

 _Gone._

It's defeat.

And the consequences of your loss lie scattered across the floor.

 _Breathe…_

 _It's okay…just breathe._

 _Don't cry…_

 _We are not going to cry today!_

You finally muster up the courage to take in the halo of riotous, golden curls, now kissing your shoulders. And you can't help but thank your inebriated self for not hacking away at your bangs.

Taking a moment to dance your fingers through your messy hair. Something happens. It's subtle. Unexpected, but comforting. Like letting the steam from a warm bubble bath chase away all the monsters from that day.

And you smile.

For it doesn't look that bad. You could spruce it up with a curling iron and it would actually look really nice.

Pinning half of your hair back, you do a quick side-by-side view in the mirror. Releasing the soft locks, only to hold them up into two low pigtails and nod. Your smile growing wider, as you then admire a high pony, loving its feathery texture.

Excitement soon blooms in your chest, thinking of all the styles you can now do. Your creative spirits have been lifted and it feels like a tiny weight has been lifted off your shoulders and you can finally breathe again.

Even if just slightly better.

Until a loud vibrating chime pulls you away from playing with flower clips and sparkly gem pieces, as you dig through your blankets to find your cellphone.

 _His_ name, now just his last name – having changed it from his coveted nickname the day you found out his soon-to-be wife was expecting – flashes on the screen and your heart skips a beat, only to stop when an image of Hank pops up. He's sleeping in Savannah's arms, who's smiling up at the camera from a rocking chair.

You know the one. You watched him carve it out of sturdy oak, and handcraft it himself. And then the good ol' sport that you are, you even helped paint it. Designing whimsical flowers over the frosty eggshell color you both had decided on.

Though it's the cute little Cubs onesie that you bought Hank. The one he's wearing now, with splotches of spit-up and that he's almost outgrown –

that pries open the empty chasm where your heart once pulsed.

And you once again feel scared. Weak. And lonely. Betrayed, but most of all…you feel abandoned. No one talks about it. They never bring it up, for your sake, but everyone knows about your Pandora's sized box full of issues with abandonment.

Morgan knew.

And he left anyway.

 _Oh…_

 _Breathe!_ But you can't.

Not when the dagger twists with such a vicious ferocity, it's like your heart is bursting through your ribs. You want to scream and weep, and maybe even laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of it all, because you're starting to feel absolutely crazy.

Though you spend your life searching and locking up crazies. That sends a shiver down your spine, and you harshly wipe away the silent tears streaming down your face.

And you tamp it down.

And wait

 _And breathe_

And wait

And...wait

Tamping all those feelings down some more.

Only to find your fingers flying over the keyboard without hesitation. Sending back a plethora of hearts and smilies with your face bare of emotion. You ignore the fact that a frown on your lips, or even a scowl, would mean that you're angry. And anger would mean that you care.

Yet, you don't feel anything in this moment. Rolling your head back-and-forth, trying to ease the tension building in your neck, your short hair grazes the tops of your shoulders and that warmth fights its way back into your body. And you decide that you're not wasting any more of your morning dissecting your feelings.

So, you go on with your day, knowing that nowadays it takes him a while to respond. You've already cleaned your bathroom, made your first cup of coffee and began putting on makeup, before his second text comes through. You skim it, without any intention of reading it. Only to tell him that you can't wait to visit _Little Hank_ soon.

You are his Godmother after all. And that's a commitment you made – no, almost had to beg for, considering Savannah seemed tentative on letting you have it, though it won't do you any good opening up that can of worms – so you stop and remind yourself that you are going to be the best damn Godmother there ever was.

And though it splits your heart in two, you promised yourself you wouldn't fuck it up. Hank is Morgan's son. And you still love _him_. A part of you always will. So that means you love Hank. Even if it hurts to see another woman's eyes staring back at you from a baby you wish was yours.

It truly is a struggle to swallow your pride and look at the positives.

Like the fact that Henry and Michael, love you to pieces.

So, you must be doing something right.

 _Right?_

 _Always a Godmother…never a mom._

The thought is a cruel, jarring slap to the face.

 _Stop it._

 _Don't do that to yourself._

 _Tick…tock…_

 _Tick._

 _Breathe…one, in…two, out…._

 _Tock._

 _It's okay. You're okay._

You're getting older. Your biological clock seems to be running out. And glancing at your cell, you're also going to be late for work.

Tossing the phone on the foot of your bed, scrambling to gather just enough strength to get ready and face the day.

Which sees to it that you're seventeen minutes late as you step foot on the elevator.

Loud printed dress, perfectly curled hair and the brightest fuchsia cardigan you could find in your closest, are pieces to your impeccably planned battle gear for today. Your suit of armor that resembles the _Garcia_ everyone knows and loves.

Not the flighty, depressed woman trying to claw her way out.

But silver doors swish open, and it hits you.

 _Tip-toes_ , you were supposed to be on your tip-toes. Because the other shoe drops, before you can catch it, and in he walks.

Mister tall, dark and – you cross your fingers that he is, because you instantly dismiss the small spark in your chest when your eyes meet – no, not again – _blandsome_.

Please let him be weird, and boring, and less…less frickin' gorgeous, and totally not my type.

 _He is so…not…your…type._

 _Just breathe, and stay cool…_

"Hey," is his simple greeting, as he jams his hands into those fitted denims.

Keeping your eyes forward you offer a mandatory "Good morning."

" _Uhmm_ , how was your weekend?" his voice is a husky baritone that sends your whole body on high alert.

 _Oh, and of course the jerk has to be nice, too!_

"I don't really discuss my personal life with my coworkers."

 _Liar!_

"Really?"

"Yeah, I keep it real low profile here," you see him nodding in the corner of your eyes and you grit your teeth. "If you must know, I hung out with my boyfriend, who is super _hot_ and _awesome_ and _totally_ in love with me."

"That's cool, yeah," and you both know he doesn't mean it. "You guys go out or?"

"No. We stayed in and he helped me with some fingering techniques…"

You watch as is eyes grow wide in shock and amusement crosses his face.

 _OH GOD!_

"For my clarinet! Which I practice and he helps me, and this conversation is making me uncomfortable and I am sorry, I must go, Agent Hotchner needs me!" you despise the pitchy waver in your voice as you narrow your gaze straight ahead.

 _Oh god, oh god…oh god!_

Seems to be the only thing your mind can think to scream as you try to walk out of there as fast as your heels will let you.

"I made lasagna!" he shouts after you.

"I do not care!" you shout right back.

You don't even go to your boss's office. Instead, you beeline it to your lair. Lock the door. And repeatedly slam your head against it.

 _Did you just…no, yeah…yeah, you did!_

 _Get it together!_

You go to stand in the spot where the air conditioner vent is. Letting the chilled breeze cool your skin as you count backwards from ten. Though that doesn't really work, so you try taking it back from fifty, only to get distracted somewhere around forty-three.

You don't know what's gotten into you, but you definitely don't like it, though you don't have much time to think about it, as your phone chimes once more.

Smoothing out your cardigan, you do a quick mental checklist as you gather your bearings.

Way too much sunshine.

Plus, a self-induced haircut.

And telling some new guy about fingering techniques.

 _Oh, right…_

 _Wasn't today supposed to be a bad day?_

 _Tip-toes, Garcia, tip-toes._

 _To be continued…_


	3. Roxy

****A/N Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds, or the borrowed dialogue from the episode The Crimson King. Story Warning: Strong M, as always. Also, so sorry for the long wait, my mind hasn't been in the writing mood until recently and I rather release chapters I feel proud of and that y'all deserve, instead of rushing them for the sake of updating. But I'm back now, and my other updates shall be out shortly. Thanks for the patience :) Please, enjoy!****

 _ **An Ingénue and her Muse**_

 _It slithers_

 _It rots_

 _Until you doubt all your thoughts_

 _and only then,_

 _will it strike_

..-. .-. . . .-.. -.- ... ... . .-. -.- .- - …

 _ **III**_

Long, luscious, fiery red hair

full, pouty lips, painted a delicate rose

a skinny little waist, that leads to long, runway model legs

and with a tinkling laugh that lights up the room,

she'll draw the captivated male gaze, and

the bitter envy of women,

and naturally, her name would be…

 _Roxy_

 _What the hell kind of name is Roxy, anyway?_

 _Ha! She probably has fake tits, horrible halitosis, and shitty cuticles._

You can feel that spark of jealousy dancing in your lower belly, as your fingers still over the faded buttons of your keyboard, and then you immediately feel contrite and chide yourself.

Though the blinking line on the search bar – a beacon of your umbrage, rests at the end of those four little letters…

The ones you haughtily typed in when your curiosity got the best of you.

Of course, you totally weren't about to break the rules and look up a coworker's personal information. Because that would be bad. And you were really trying to be good. However, when you're numb on the inside, your moral compass is a bit skewed and hard to gauge.

Nibbling on your bottom lip, tasting the lingering strawberry gloss that always gets stuck on your teeth, letting your pinky hover over the _Enter_ key, only to jam it down on the _Backspace_ , deleting the search.

No need to pour salt into an exposed wound.

Rubbing your striped, pink fuzzy socks together, you sink back into the plush pillows on your bed. Letting your head lightly thud against the headboard, as you stare up at the dull glow-in-the-dark planets and stars that are scattered across your ceiling which, unfortunately for you, doesn't ease your suddenly sulky mood.

It's an array of mixed emotions festering in your gut and fluttering into your chest, making your throat tighten as tears dot your lashes. Furiously wiping at your eyes and focusing on breathing – you force that imminent panic attack down…

 _down…_

 _ **down**_.

And then you slam your laptop closed and toss it at the foot of the bed.

For a moment, you allow yourself to self-reflect – to profile yourself, so to speak, and you don't like what you find.

That you're mad at Derek.

Resentful even.

Hurt, definitely.

So, you've been kinda, sorta deflecting those feelings. Avoiding them completely. And now you've become…angry.

And your anger needs an outlet – so you can pursue your denial further – and that outlet is the new guy.

Good ol' newbie, Luke Alvez, with his beautiful hair, perfect shoulder-to-hip ratio, and those deep, dark eyes that seem to sparkle with a charming mischief that simultaneously makes you gnaw on your bottom lip and roll your eyes.

 _Whoa, Garcie!_

You're straying from the point here girl – that you're deflecting, which you now seem to be doing even in your daydreams- _not_ that you were just daydreaming about you annoying coworker. You know, the one that could easily be a Calvin Klein model.

 _Oh-kaaay_ , okay, you're deflecting, again!

You're a deflector.

Awesome.

You can go ahead and add that to the _'Things-you're-aware-are-problematic-but-you're-not-planning-on-changing-anytime-soon'_ list.

You're also heartbroken – saying that word out loud feels like spitting nails – which has caused your anxiety to flare up, bringing with it a heavy dose of depression, and

…guilt.

You're guilty of making yourself believe you had a future with him.

When deep down you always knew you two would never work out. And yet, you forced yourself, every day, for over ten years, to wake up...hopeful.

 _Ouch!_

You quickly sip the rest of your lukewarm peppermint tea. That was a large, bitter pill to swallow. And it's still lodged in the back of your throat. Will be for a while.

Especially when those warm fuzzies hum within your chest. A reminder that you're a woman. One that has needs. That little, but mighty voice has been screaming in the back of your mind that it's okay to like Luke, or at least to not hate- okay no, you don't hate him, you don't hate anybody, you just strongly dislike him.

And since you're only human, you find yourself also wanting to spite _Morgan_ by enjoying the company of Luke.

To bask in it.

Flaunt it.

After all, if Morgan gets to leave you behind and live happily ever after, aren't you allowed to stay put and find love again?

 _Roxy._

The name pops up like a red flag guarding your heart and it jerks your racing mind to a complete stop.

Don't you dare fall for another man who already loves another woman.

You will not do that again.

Though, technically, you didn't do that the first time.

You met Derek first.

And then spent years watching him date a plethora of other women – _every woman –_ from different departments, intern to agent, from ones he met at coffee shops or frequented night clubs, hell, he even went out with one from a case he was working on _– except_ _ **you**_ – until he found Savannah.

And then you watched him fall in love with her.

And marry her.

And have a kid with her.

And then, move away with her.

The knife twists…

and your breath…

hitches.

Your half way to the kitchen, fumbling with the corkscrew before jamming it into the stopper, nearly dropping the bottle at your feet, before popping open the sweet, red wine. You normally like to swish the alluring liquid around in a pink old-fashioned glass – building up the moment. Except you don't have time to ponder, and you chug straight out of the heavy bottle, several unlady-like sips, letting the luscious berry flavors roll over your tongue.

But it's the singular drop that catches on your bottom lip and slides down your chin that it hits you…

A freight train, slamming into the back of your skull.

Metal grinding on metal.

A jumbled collision, but your memory is clear.

And you have no power to stop it from washing over you.

" _Hey, Baby Girl, the team's waiting," his voice is a low rumble, and though he's trying to be chipper – which is so not very him – you can hear the pain trailing behind his words._

" _I have a headache," is all you can manage through the tightness of your throat._

" _Need your tea?" his tired eyes glance towards the kitchenette, knowing peppermint is your go-to._

" _I just- I mean…he's coming back, right?" you finally sputter, hating the waver in your voice – the forced optimism – and immediately drop your gaze to the floor, rapidly blinking away any stray tears._

" _He's your Boy Wonder, of course, he'll come back," his response is simple. No promises. Just facts. And the use of Reid's nickname pulls a tiny smile at your lips as you nod in agreement._

 _Though, you still haven't found the courage to look back up. To take in the silent, empty bullpen. Or the worried wrinkles marring Morgan's handsome face. So, you try to expel your anxiety by fiddling with the large gaudy ring on your index finger, until the nickel of the band begins to irritate your skin._

 _Sniffling, you tap the colorful slinky on Reid's desk, the one you gave him as a birthday present his first year there – believing that everyone needed a little trinket to kill the mundane cycle of their work – wiping your eyes, you finally turn to face him, and gasp when you nearly slam into his solid chest._

" _C'mon," is all he growls, encasing his large hand around your shaking one as he pulls you toward the elevator. You remain in a haze as the two of you make it through the eerily quiet parking lot, and you only muster enough energy to stare out the window of his SUV as he starts up the engine and drives away. You don't notice he's going the wrong way, until he's parked outside a gorgeous blue house at the end of a cul-de-sac._

 _You turn to look at him, then back at the house, and the confusion slips away._

" _Wait, is this—this is…your place?" you squeak out._

 _He smiles, already unbuckling his seat belt and halfway out the door._

 _His house._

 _He brought you to his… **home**. _

_A flurry of emotions tremble in your chest and settle into a warm tingle between your legs. You gulp as he swiftly opens the passenger door. And you can only blink as he leads you up a lit cobblestone pathway. The heels of your ribbon-laced wedges sliding around the polished grooves._

 _You watch as he swings his heavy go-bag over his shoulder and digs for his keys in the side pocket. It's all done with a mastered ease, a habitual familiarity, and you gnaw on your bottom lip when you catch the lion – peeping through the pretty olive green of his cotton tee – ripple over his firm bicep._

 _Though you don't have long to stare as the door kicks open and a warm draft washes over your face while something cold and wet lapses at your baby pink, nylon covered calves._

 _A startled squeal flees your lips, arms flailing wildly, only to instantly become embarrassed when enthusiastic barking fills the house._

" _A puppy?!" completely dumbfounded, you find yourself nodding in excitement. "You have a puppy! Since when? Why didn't you tell me?! Oh, he's adorable! What's his name? Look at his cute little smooshy face, I just wanna smoosh it!"_

 _Kneeling down, awkwardly trying to keep the turquoise dress from sliding up your thighs, to give plenty of snuggles to the chunky, wrinkly ball of slobber and big chocolate brown eyes._

" _His name is Clooney," Morgan states, simply, then proceeds to casually walk away like he didn't just drop a bombshell on you._

" _I'm sorry, what?" getting to your feet, quickly following him down a lovely deep wine painted hallway. "You!" throwing your hand up at him, wiggling your orange tipped nails in his face. "Have a dog, who's named…Clooney. Like after George Clooney. Thee George Clooney. From the hit television show ER."_

" _Baby Girl," he starts, but you stop him._

 _Holding the palm of your hand up as the other dramatically clutches your chest. "I feel so, so…betrayed," you pout, already thinking of the cutest little tuxedo suit to get the bulldog._

" _Nu-uh," shaking his head, giving you that arched brow look that always says more than any words ever could. "Don't even think about it."_

" _What?" slowly batting your lashes as you fiddle with your hot pink cardigan._

" _You're not buying Clooney any bows, or frilly tutus."_

" _First of all, it's a three-piece suit with a bow tie," you practically stomp your foot. "And how could you not tell me you have a dog named Clooney! I tell you everything!"_

 _He gives you that pointed arch brow, and you have the decency to look a wee bit guilty._

" _It just never came up," shrugging his shoulder, craning his neck as he rubs that spot which always gives him tension problems._

" _Do you have a cat!" you blurt out, spinning around in circles as your eyes furtively dart around the room._

" _What?!" he looks almost, disgusted. "Hell no!"_

" _Well you have a puppy!" you huff, crossing your arms. "How do I know you don't have some feline companion strutting around here."_

 _A mischievous grin crosses his face and you roll your eyes._

" _Silly Girl," he taps you on the nose, and takes your hand, so easily – without hesitation – it takes your breath away and has you second guessing every minute interaction. "C'mon. Lemme make you dinner."_

" _And you cook?" you seem to be in a trance, having gone through some sort of vortex while in his SUV, and waking up to find that this Morgan has somehow become irrevocably even more irresistible.  
_

 _You're soon greeted by gorgeous hues of dove grey, navy blues and oak wood. Décor that looks straight out of those Country Living magazines that you flip through in line at the grocery store._

" _Wowza!" you gasp, only to get his amused chuckle in return._

" _Sit," he had dropped everything off by the front door before bringing you towards an overstuffed, dark coffee, Thomasville sectional. Hanging over the back of the comfortable sofa was a pretty cream knitted throw blanket that begged to be thrown over your shoulders and snuggled up in._

 _You sit, back rigid, tush on the very end of the cushion, wide eyes glancing around – taking in the spacious room._

" _Hey, mi casa es su casa," eyes twinkling with amusement, and you shake your head as a light blush blooms across your cheeks and you finally relax into the plush pillows._

 _Morgan disappears through a beautiful white curved archway, just as Clooney gets a running start and jumps up on the couch and instantly makes himself comfortable on your lap._

 _Petting the pup's soft brown ears, you soon hear the water running from the kitchen as pots and pans clank together. Settling further into the couch, you take your time perusing the cozy living room, smiling when you see a wall with framed pictures of friends and family. Your smile only growing when you spot a picture of the two of you. You both have large goofy grins. Your hair is in bouncing pigtails, while Morgan is wearing a ball cap backwards, his arm rests happily over your shoulder – holding you close._

 _You remember that day._

 _It was the first softball game of his you went to. His team had won, and he proudly doted you around in front of all his friends during the victory pizza and beer celebration afterwards. That game had only been a few short months before, yet it felt like a lifetime ago, considering not much between you had…changed._

 _You had remained patiently sitting on the sidelines, waiting and…waiting…_

 _And now you're finally sitting inside his house, and suddenly everything's different. And that's all it takes for a swarm of butterflies to rush into your chest, giving you a coughing fit._

" _Whoa there," Morgan emerges – wine bottle swinging from his hand as he sips on a can of beer. "Don't go passing out on me, Pretty Mama."_

" _I would never dream of it," giggling as Clooney's tail tickles your knees, when he squirms in excitement._

 _Morgan places a wine glass in front of you, and plops down on the couch right next to you. So close, that you can feel the heat radiating from his thigh, through those dark denim jeans. Giving his pup a little belly rub – and you immediately become aware of how near his hand is to your groin, those lithe fingers wiggling around and you clamp down on your lip, stifling a moan, though you don't do a very good job since he gives you a knowing wink – before jamming the corkscrew into the top of the bottle. Everything he does is with such an ease, you could probably watch him flip through a phone book and be utterly fascinated._

 _The deep red wine gets poured into the glass, and he gently swirls it around, before passing it over to you._

 _You smirk, eagerly taking several sips, mindful of not bumping it into the snuggle bug on your lap._

 _Morgan kicks off his shoes, reclining back into the spot next to you and turns on his television, doing his best to find something you both want to watch._

 _The moment is simple._

 _Casual._

 _And rather lovely._

 _A much-needed reprieve from the chaos of the last few days. And that was the wrong train of thought to have as those emotions come crashing back into your serenity._

" _What do you think he's doing?" letting your thumb catch the cool droplets sliding down the rim, hating the words as they tumble out of your mouth, but you can't stop them. You need to know._

" _Huh?" resting his head on the cushion, he turns slowly to look at you._

" _My Boy Genius," nearly splashing the wine as you throw your arm up in frustration. "I mean we watched him, in that room getting…getting tortured and and, we couldn't do anything. I just keep replaying it over and over in my mind and I can't help but wonder, if he's okay."_

 _Clooney, sensing the shift in your energy, jumps off his cozy spot and becomes restless at your feet. Morgan follows suit and is now sitting up, television now muted as he gives you his full attention._

" _Hey, look at me."_

 _But you're crying. Again. Beating yourself up for ruining this really, great intimate moment you two were having. So, you just shake your head and hope the floor just swallows you up._

" _Garcia," the use of your last name is the equivalent of a parent scolding a child. He's serious, but you still refuse to give in, stubborn as you are. Yet, he doesn't quit. "Look at me. We saved him. And we couldn't have done it without you."_

" _Oh please," you huff, blowing a loose curl out of your face._

" _Stop that," he frowns, narrowing his gaze as his beautiful brown eyes glimmer with that…thing…that thing, that always sends an electric tingle down your spine. It's like a cosmic connection. You could feel it across the room or even over the phone. It's a warmth – a simmering heat wrapped with adoration, and you've been completely enraptured with it from the very beginning. "Reid's fine. A little battered and bruised, but fine."_

" _I know, I just…" you stammer, unsure of what you're even trying to say._

" _I know," he slowly plays with a blonde ringlet, before tucking it tenderly behind your ear, only for his smile to grow, as he hums in appreciation. "Hey, you wanna know what else you should know?"_

 _You tentatively stare at him over the top of those bedazzled frames._

" _That big heart you wear on your colorful sleeve, is my favorite part of you."_

 _You snort with unexpected laughter, slapping playfully at his shoulder. "And here I thought you were a breast man."_

 _Good going, Garcie! Way to resort back to ignoring your feelings and scraping over pent up sexual tension by cracking a joke!_

 _His expressive brows waggle with mischief, "Oh trust me," eyes falling upon your chest – it's not disgust you feel as his heated gaze peruses your body, oh no, it's pure torrential need, "I do adore those."_

 _It's a brazen statement._

 _Nothing you two haven't teased about before. But never in such an intimate setting. It adds a whole other layer to your dynamic. And you desperately want to peel it back and dissect it._

 _Except your head falls back as you quickly guzzle down the rest of your wine, unaware of the cool liquid dripping down your chin, only to awkwardly wave the empty glass in your hand as you catch your breath._

 _Though it's the rough pad of his thumb, slowly tracing your bottom lip, that flutters your heart. He hesitates, lingering – taking his time to retrace the plump flesh and you find your eyes drifting close. It's a moment you've been waiting for and your mind is racing with delicious possibilities._

 _His breath dances over your face. Coffee and mint filling your senses and you dare to peek an eye open, shocked to find him so close. Your eyes lock and the air around you becomes heavy, carrying an electrical charge – a sizzling potency that's quite intoxicating._

 _It lasts but a moment, until, much to your dismay, Morgan removes his hand from your chin only to boldly stick his slender finger slightly in his mouth and then you watch intently as his pink tongue wraps around that tantalizing caramel digit, and he smirks._

" _Mmm, sweet," is all he says._

… _is all, you realize, everything you've ever wanted him to say – well, not those exact words but the message it implies._

 _Morgan pressed between your legs._

 _Licking between your breasts._

 _Taking the pulsing need buried in the apex of your thighs – holding it in the palm of his hand, the tip of his tongue – making you hoarse with pleasure as you shamelessly beg for more._

 _And you fumble with the delicate glass. It slips from your quivering fingers, bounces off the edge of the coffee table and shatters at your feet._

The noise is jarring.

A splintering crash.

You spin around, lips pursing into a fine line.

Devastated to not find those rich navy blues and soft dove greys.

Instead it's a brick wall and bright canary yellow. Your purple tea kettle. And the swinging tail of the black cat clock on the wall next to it.

You're no longer in Morgan's living room, but in your own kitchen.

The memory fades, but your feelings get lodged in your chest…

and everything suddenly seems dull, and entirely pointless.

You feel rather pathetic for thinking such toxic thoughts, yet they continue to circle your mind – a swirling hive of destruction that you can't swat away.

So, you cinch your eyes shut, hating the sandpaper burn behind the lids, and count backwards from 10. That doesn't work, and you do it again, only to get distracted by the time you hit seven when the strong aroma of wine washes over you. Your watery gaze falls to that glossy hardwood flooring, spotting the dark broken glass and the red wine pooled beneath your feet, soaking your favorite fuzzy socks.

 _Oh._

Is your simple thought. Hazy, and laden with exhaustion.

It takes a few languid moments before you find enough strength to pick up the shattered glass, dry the floor, and peel off the cold, wet fabric from your feet. It's a much easier mess to clean up then the big giant one Morgan left of your life.

Once finished, you slowly trudge the short distance back to your room, only to stop at the door when you spot the discarded laptop above your floral quilt. You glare at the offending object, stomping forward and plopping down on your disheveled bed. You stare at the ceiling – until you realize you're not finding any answers upon those faded glow-in-the-dark stars and abruptly roll over, only to scowl when you catch sight of that shiny clarinet through the beaded doorway of your room.

 _Oh, God!_

 _You didn't, oh please no…oh, oh but you did. You really did…_

Go on one of your long-winded, blubbering tirades and convince the Newbie that you have some _hot Canadian boyfriend_ that you call at your whimsy to teach you _fingering techniques_.

You cringe, slapping your palm across your forehead, for that faux pas, because you definitely don't have a hot boyfriend…from Canada.

 _Way to go, Garcie!_

You got flustered and then overcompensated by showing off and ended up completely embarrassing yourself in front of the new guy. The newbie with his beautiful and super intelligent lover or girlfriend or…wife…named _Roxy_.

 _Okay, no, stop it._

It's not his fault you're all wound tight and bitter.

If Agent Alvez has a significant other in his life who makes him happy, then who are you to butt in and ruin that.

Without thought, you reach for your cellphone and instantly hit one on your speed dial. Though, it's not until the fourth ring when you realize what you're doing and fumble to hang up.

The screen thankfully turns red before closing, and you quickly place it down on the nightstand, scooting as far away as you can get without rolling off the bed.

You almost forgot how dependent you've become over the years. So reliant on his presence. It's second nature, a natural reflex, to always reach out for Morgan.

To call him when your hurt.

So he can kiss it all better.

And make the pain go away.

You don't know when your best friend knocked you off your fierce independent streak, but he somehow managed to do it. Without your knowledge. Without your consent. And that anger you've forced to the bottom of your belly, scolds your insides and you need to sit up to catch your breath, only to startle when that vibrating chime bounces around the room.

Glaring at your phone, not wanting to talk to your Hot Stuff but you don't have to worry…he didn't call you back – hasn't done that in weeks – for it's only Prentiss.

"'Ello," you don't recognize your own voice – it's a pitiful croak that sounds like it's about to crack any minute. "Huh, yeah…yeah, no…I'm okay!" using the back of your sleeve to dry your eyes. "Uh-huh, okay…yeah…no worries. I'm on my way."

You hang up. Not ready to hear the concern in Emily's voice. In this moment, that is all it would take to split you open and you don't know how long it would take for you to resurface.

…or if you ever would.

A case, you remind yourself. Focus on the case. You know how to do that. And that is exactly what you're going to do.

You're going to go to work, and not – _absolutely not_ – fall in love with the New Guy.

Nope.

Nu-uh.

Not gonna happen.

And as you pull your hair into a hot pink scrunchie, you actually start to believe it.

 _To be continued..._


End file.
